


Spillover

by BryonNightshade



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gabriel thinks he is, It's a gray area, Longing, Nathalie Sancoeur needs a hug, Nathalie Sancoeur-centric, Unresolved Emotional Tension, she's doing her best, unsexy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryonNightshade/pseuds/BryonNightshade
Summary: Nathalie has always admired Gabriel’s compartmentalization. He has such mental discipline and control he can keep affairs of the mind, heart, and body separate from each other, and tend to each in turn.She can’t.
Relationships: Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29
Collections: October 2020 - Dark





	Spillover

“Nathalie.”

She looks up from her tablet. Gabriel Agreste wasn’t looking at her before, and he still isn’t. As ever, he’s staring off into the distance. He has so many things to juggle, so many balls in the air, it’s no surprise he has no attention to spare for her. He needs all the help he can get. It’s her duty to aid him in any way she can.

“I’m at your disposal, sir,” she tells him.

“I know you are,” he says, and his eyes tighten before he speaks again. “I find myself… distracted. Frustrated.”

She stiffens, knowing that the words are far more than an observation. “Of course, sir. Now?”

“Now.”

She clicks her heels together, as if coming to attention. “I’ll make the preparations.”

He grunts. She’s already out of his mind. Already forgotten. She marvels at how compartmentalized his mind is, how the different things he does and thinks about never touch each other. Everything stays in its own, neat little box.

She muses, as she exits his sanctum, that his mind must be like a warehouse, one box next to another, tidily in-line. A box for new designs. A box for company business. A box for “company business”. A (too-small, she dared think) box for Adrien. A box for Hawk Moth. A box for Emilie. A… not a box for Nathalie, but perhaps an envelope.

And a resented, neglected box for his own physical needs.

Well. That’s just another of her duties: helping keep the contents of that box from spilling onto its neighbors.

She reaches her bedroom, opens the door, proceeds inside, and begins to strip in business-like fashion. Jacket first, then turtleneck, then pants. One piece after another is doffed, scrupulously folded, and set aside. She will need these clothes again when this duty is complete. Best to take care of them in the meantime.

Bra and panties follow. She is cold, standing naked in her bedroom, and her nipples pebble up from the sensation, but she takes the time to be just as careful with her undergarments. When they, too, are set aside, she opens the drawer of her bedside table and draws out a small bottle of lubricant. She applies it copiously, sparing none, ensuring every bit of her womanhood is prepared.

It’s theoretically possible that she could warm herself up “the old-fashioned way”. She’s considered that approach in the past, and rejected it. This way is faster. She’s guaranteed to be ready whenever he arrives. It’s the biggest concern, for her. She doesn’t know exactly when he’ll be joining her. Usually it’s within minutes. Not always: one time he forgot about her completely and she emerged, humiliated, two hours later to discover he’d left for the airport without her.

When he’s wound up enough to demand this service, though, it’s usually because his need is urgent, and he doesn’t give her much time to prepare. So the lube it is.

This is such a case. She’s barely replacing the bottle in her drawer when the door opens. “Ready?” he asks, shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Yes, sir,” she replies, and she climbs onto the bed to wait for him. The one time she dared try to undress him in the past… well, she knows better, now.

He doffs only his shoes, pants and underwear, leaving the rest on. The better, she knows, to return to his normal functioning once these ever-so-inconvenient urges are spent.

Usually he takes her from behind. It’s easier for both of them that way. No eye contact. He can rut her and imagine it’s not her. She can finger herself while he uses her and steal some selfish pleasure. It’s practical.

This time, as she does every so often, she remains sprawled on her back, inviting him atop her. He makes no word or expression on the matter. He rarely does. Instead he accepts, climbs between her legs, positions himself, and thrusts.

There’s no foreplay, no teasing, no affection whatsoever. He’s already hard—the distraction he’d spoken of—and she’s prepared herself enough to take it. He rushes into her, spreading her almost painfully. She bites her lip to stifle her gasp. Nothing must break his mood.

She very loosely holds on to his shirt, and shifts her hips to raise her legs, but she does nothing to get in his way or moderate his pace. She does a good job; if he notices her change in posture, he makes no sign. He remains intent only on pushing into her, on seeking his satisfaction in her flesh.

She studies his face as he moves. It’s the virtue and the peril of this position: she can  _ see _ . When he’s behind her, she can imagine any expression on his face she pleases. Like this, she stares down the truth.

He doesn’t see her.

She’s right in front of him, but his eyes are unfocused and glazed over. She’s not there, or if she is, she’s not her. Not in his mind.

Compartmentalization.

He’s not actually being unfaithful as he slakes his lust on her body. He’s preserving himself for Emilie. It’s a feat of incredible mental gymnastics and self-control. It’s even romantic, in its way. Even at a time like this, Emilie’s the center of his universe.

In that universe, there’s no room for Nathalie. She’s not there, in his mind. She’s not real. He’s not having sex with Nathalie. He’s masturbating.

She starts to reach out a hand towards his face. She stills it before it reaches halfway.

How dare she.

How unimaginably selfish it would be, to tear him away like that, to force him to acknowledge her. This is as close as he can get to his wife without looking at her unmoving body, preserved under glass since who knew when, and for who knew how much longer.

Who does Nathalie think she is, to take that away from him?

Her hand drops to the sheets and she goes slack beneath him. She lets him exhaust himself on her.

It doesn’t take long; he truly is pent up. He comes no closer to acknowledging her existence. Even as he approaches his peak, he drops his torso to hers, but his head goes to the side of hers, buried in the crook of her shoulder, unable to see any part of her. She understands. He’s taking exquisite care to keep her out of his eyes and mind and heart. He’s preserving every bit of it for his wife.

The desires of his body are an obstacle to his devotion. That’s one burden Nathalie can ease. The less he sees her, the better job she’s doing, the more helpful she is to him. She wants so badly to be helpful to him.

As he pours himself into her, she knows she’s being very helpful indeed.

He shudders, and shivers, and goes still. One of her hands wanders and, in a moment of less-than-total professionalism, strokes through the hair on the back of his head.

He jerks beneath her hand. She freezes, afraid that she’s ruined things, but he doesn’t mention it or react further. All the same, she returns that hand to her side, unwilling to risk making things worse.

They stay like that—connected but not intimate, engaged but not together—as he catches his breath. Then he peels himself backwards, leaving her sweaty and shivering. It takes longer for her to collect herself. By the time she manages it he’s fixing his belt.

“Here,” she says, bringing voices back into play for the first time in a while. “Let me fix your makeup for you.” He complies, steps in front of her vanity with casual ease. This part of the routine is as practiced as the rest. 

She doesn’t have time to worry about still being naked. The priority is to get him ready to go back to work. It doesn’t take her long. He’s still and cooperative as she goes about it. After a bit of wiping down, a little powder, a touch-up to his hair, and a spritz or two of scent, he’s perfectly presentable.

He nods to himself as he adjusts his tie. “There,” he says. He checks his watch. “Nathalie, Adrien will be getting out of school soon.”

“I’ll see to it,” she promises.

He turns to the door but pauses with his hand on the doorknob. He’s facing away from her, not even looking at her in the mirror, not allowing himself to see her in her nudity. When he speaks, it’s in a softer voice than his norm. “You’re a good assistant, Nathalie.”

Her breath hitches.

“I would trust no one else with this. I’m glad I can rely on you.”

Her mouth is dry as she tries to summon up the words for a response.  _ Of course you can _ would be presumptuous.  _ My pleasure _ is too close to a double entendre; he’d think she’s mocking him.

“Thank you,” she chokes out.

He huffs, opens the doorknob, and leaves.

She exhales.

The room is empty and cold. The sweat on her is rapidly drying, and she’s still naked. His semen is rolling down her thighs, neglected in her haste to get him back out her door.

Grimacing, she begins to clean up. There will be no maid service to help her out. Her room is her responsibility, outside the purview of what he pays for. Not unlike birth control, she thinks morosely. He made it clear, before she began servicing him in this way, that it is incumbent upon her to take care of her body. He will not tolerate the notion of bastards coming from these encounters, but the measures to prevent that are up to her.

She acknowledges the sense this makes. (She winces slightly as she cleans herself, wiping away at her tenderized flesh.) All he seeks from her is a clear head so he can work to bring his wife back. Anything else adds distraction—makes it more trouble than it’s worth.

It truly amazes her, sometimes. She doesn’t know how Emilie ended up under glass, nor when, but it must have been years ago. The years haven’t changed him. His focus is as laser-tight now as ever it was. Everything else is just… peripheral.

Like her.

What would it be like, she wonders, to have that degree of devotion focused on her? She is sustained by a reflection of it, a second-hand version. What must it have been like for Emilie, to take the full force of that fierce, world-changing love?

She looks in the mirror, seeing herself as he never did, seeing her nudity, seeing her body still flushed from his use. She wonders what it would be like if his eyes focused on her, for once. If he ever saw her the way he saw Emilie.

Or the way Nathalie sees him.

It’s a greedy, treasonous thought. She marvels at his devotion to Emilie; if he looked at Nathalie, it would destroy the very thing she admires. Her getting a taste of his love would cheapen it. Taint it.

No. It truly is better this way.

She vocalizes it. “It’s better this way.” Her body aches with unsatisfied need. “It’s better this way.” She misses him, viscerally, primally. “It’s better this way.” There’s no time to seek her own pleasure; she needs to repair her image to be ready to get Adrien.

“It’s better this way.” Mantra. Prayer. Lie? No, of course not.

And yet…

Her mind is not nearly as compartmentalized as his.

His praise means everything to her. It would mean that much more if he spared her a glance. Was that too big an ask? Was it too big a compromise of his devotion to look at her face while he thanked her?

Maybe, someday, she’ll earn that from him.

She can always hope.


End file.
